Measurements

I want you to have the puddles.
The moments I am melting like
vanilla bean ice cream,
watermelon Popsicle
on your tongue.

I want you to have the flashing lights,
the Zippo flipped spark
when passion arises
in my overgrown eyes.

I want you to have the sediment,
the mountain ranges covered with past
imprints of lovers who made the climb
and willingly took the fall.

I want you to have the sand beneath our feet,
and the waves that made us clean.

I want you to have the messy
and the pretty.

I want you to breathe easy.
I want you to shelter your heart

Under my umbrella,
under the awning,
this safe haven
of we.

All I ask in return
is that you love
every ounce
of me
and the potential
of what
you and I
could be.

Painting by Numbers

I am teaching your fingerprints
to paint by freckles
rather than number the
beauty marks that decorate my skin.

I am not flawed flesh.
I am human being.

The first time you touched the emotional scars
that were raised across my body,
your fingers became like sewing needles
and each print left a stitch.

I began scratching though there was no itch.
I began clawing at skin.

I told you to paint over me instead,
because there is no fixing past casualties.
I told you to paint over each scar,
I’d rather be covered in beauty;
I’d rather fix myself.

You water me with kisses

 

The first boy
said my lips were like rosebuds
and he got caught up
on their thorns.

The second teased I was
a Venus Flytrap,
and continued to place
his finger between my teeth,
waiting for my bite.

The third called me
Ivy,
but he swore I wasn’t poisonous.
He confused my growth, for entanglement,
and got swallowed in the brush.

You
swore that they were all wrong.

To you,
I am a garden.

 

En Courage

I bet she wants
to dangle from your lips
like a cigarette;
willingly burning up to ash
under your touch.

I bet she strings up
butterflies between her ribs;
plays marionette,
finds comfort in knowing
things won’t move unless
she wills them to budge.

I notice,
I talk about myself too often.
Not just with her,
or her,
but them in general,
yet my battle has
finally
been won.

I want her to know
that she is beautiful.
That not all boys leave you broken,
and sometimes, you don’t learn,
until your swan song
gets sung.

173

This is where I am now.
But I want to thank you instead of hate you.

Also, Violet? Thank you for putting words to my soul’s cry.

Serendipity

It wasn’t personal.

I know, that sounds like bullshit. I know, everything is personal. But it wasn’t about you, in the end. It was just me, my broken heart, my bruised ego, my anger, my pain. You couldn’t see what I felt, and I was grateful for that. It is hard enough being sad without witnesses, I don’t think I could have survived the shame.

I was trapped under your shadow and there was no escape, no redemption. Your selfish fantasies swallowed me whole, and life began to move on without me. Have you ever experienced anything so horrifying as time passing by without you? You became the centre of my universe and gravity took its sweet toll. I was a trophy on your cabinet, and mornings were your curse. It’s hard to ignore the rainy days and the masochist in me continues to indulge in sad songs that remind…

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Watercolor

I am watching sun
slink behind clouds
that are full of thunder.
I am watching baby blue bleed
into black,
and bruises bloom
over instead of under.

And I want to tell you that
I remember.
That you were my sun and
there was a time when I wanted
our bodies to crash to roll
like thunder,
to shiver with electricity,
brains clouded and eyes shining
with lightning.

And I am watching storm
prepare to rain down
on man-made fortress.

And I am waiting
regardless of undress
to lay in your rain.

Fallout: Response to “Louder than a Bomb”

He said,
“I want you to take it down.”
Not:
I feel guilty“.

He did not admit
that he loved seeing his name,
just not as an
atrophy.

So instead,
I will scream yours,
darling,
because he has
you believing
you have tarnished grace.

I, unlike her, will not
say your name.
I will not give credit
to the man that made her
Hiroshima,
Nagasaki,
FALLOUT;
nuclear waste-
land.

When she is America.

Your project Manhattan
is to let panties drop
instead of bombs
and claim you are left
with the ache.

I, sir, do believe
it is time you are shown
with distaste.

You preach:
censorship,
like your second language is not poetry
just flattery;
yet, you don’t find it
in your “caring” soul
to let girls like us know the difference.

Whether your name begins with a
J
or an
E,
I know you.

You like to have girls like us
be put on parade,
but we are only sharing your float.
You call us pretty,
and you gloat,
you’re on to the next one.

Confetti falls on your head,
just as easily as her name
falls from your lips
as your bodies fell
into mattress.

boom.

First one.

You don’t let her know
that love and entanglement
suffer from language barrier
as you climb into iron clad shelter,
leaving her in the blast—

boom.

Second one.

But you called her
“pathetic”;
tricked her into thinking her catharsis was
weakness.

Sweetheart,
I will not say your name.

But you want to know something?
Kiana.

Two syllables;
you break off the second half;
sometimes speaking truth requires two
breaths,
requires courage,
a trait which I do believe you lack.

Because,
men like you,
they like it when their women
deflate.
Like it when they aren’t left with pain.
Never think what would happen
when she retaliates.

But,
you started this war.

You say her friends and people talk
about her?
Fine;
listen as I speak

You will never
deserve a woman
with her strength.

I hope your guilt strangles you.

I hope your shame pummels you.

I hope to God, you ache.

Because,
Kiana,
deserves to have her name said,
deserves to have her words read,
deserves to have no censorship,
especially if it distorts
the false perfection
that you try to portray.

“This is how the world ends:
not with a bang,
but a whimper.”

I hope the silence
swallows you.

I will never say your name.